


Let's Say I Let You In

by kedgeree



Series: Holidays [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Biting, Costume Kink, Established Relationship, Halloween, Halloween Costumes, Humor, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Podfic Available, Romance, Smut, Vampire Sherlock (but not really), mild bloodplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-31
Updated: 2014-11-14
Packaged: 2018-02-23 09:14:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2542217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kedgeree/pseuds/kedgeree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Halloween and Sherlock's vampire costume is turning John on, but Sherlock doesn't quite <em>get</em> the idea of a sexy vampire. At least…not at first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Halloween!

"But you should have told me it was the _blood donor_ we were after," John scolded as he shut the front door of 221 Baker Street against the bright, blustery Halloween night. He was still grinning like a fool, high on the thrill of the chase, the rust-crisp smell of autumn leaves, and the bite of cold air in his lungs. And, as always, Sherlock. "Funny."

Sherlock gave his long, red satin-lined cape a flap. It made a sound a bit like an offended laugh whilst Sherlock transitioned his proud little smile into a smirk. "Why else would I have chosen such a ludicrous costume?"

"Because it suits you, and you know it?" John gave Sherlock an appreciative once-over. His traditional vampire costume was of course perfect in every detail, flamboyantly Gothic, rich fabrics and a sweeping fall of cloak for Sherlock to swirl about. Even a collar to turn up. It really _should_ have been ludicrous, overstated as it was, but on Sherlock it just sort of…worked. "Because it's sexy?"

Sherlock paused in stripping off his white gloves, looking genuinely surprised. He ran one hand down the front of his crimson velvet double-breasted waistcoat and wrinkled his nose. "You think _this_ is sexy?"

John shrugged the quiver of arrows off his shoulder and dropped it gently onto the hardwood floor. "You have _seen_ yourself, right?"

"How?" Sherlock lifted a coy eyebrow. "I cast no reflection."

The smug little smile re-appeared when John snorted a laugh. "Funny _and_ sexy. Bloody hell, Sherlock, if I wasn't much help with the case tonight, it's your fault. You. In…that. _Very_ distracting."

"I wouldn't worry, John. You're rarely _that_ much help."

John pursed his lips and nodded. "I'd tell you to bite me, except I'm going to need you to put your teeth back in first. And we're going to need to be naked."

"You're serious, aren't you?" Sherlock gave him a sidelong look as he draped his gloves over the side of the banister. "You _really_ find this absurd costume…sexually inspiring. A walking corpse that can only be held in its grave by a stake driven through its heart. Isn't that a bit macabre?"

"Says the man who keeps severed heads in the fridge."

"Not because they're _sexy_ ," Sherlock said primly.

"Sherlock, everyone thinks vampires are sexy."

"Do they? Why?"

"Well, you know," John shrugged. "Beautiful. Predatory. Mesmerising. Impossible to resist. That sort of thing."

"But that's me already."

"Modest," John added softly, grinning at the floor.

" _This_ , on the other hand is just…ridiculous." Sherlock fluffed his billowy white sleeves. "Affected. Ostentatious. Far too dramatic."

"Mm, you're right. Now I think about it, those aren't qualities I find attractive at all."

Sherlock gave him the suspicious glower that meant he wasn't _quite_ sure whether or not John was taking the piss.

John rubbed his nose, hiding his smile, and pushed away from the door. "You _were_ amazing tonight."

Sherlock drew himself up and gave his curls a shake worthy of the most romantic of wind-kissed heroes, accompanied by a blatantly insincere casual shrug. "Yes."

"Come here."

John swallowed his chuckle at the little flourish of cape that accompanied Sherlock's ready movement into his arms. He slid his hands up Sherlock's velvet-covered torso and pressed up for a kiss. The tip of Sherlock's nose was still cold from the chilly walk home, but his mouth was as warm and eager as ever, and the welcome John found there made his toes curl with satisfaction.

Even through an awkward and tentative beginning, even through snits and melancholy and bad temper and the occasional anatomical malfunction, Sherlock Holmes was the most attentive, incredible, ridiculous whirlwind of a lover John could ever hope for. Any suggestions John made or wishes John expressed were diligently catalogued, researched, and applied with all the enthusiasm of a new experiment. Of course John had learnt to rile him out of his own brain, often wildly so, and took great pride in each and every occasion where Sherlock had let go of his precious control. In fact the best part of sex with Sherlock was that he so often seemed utterly overwhelmed by John's simplest touch, the sound of his voice, his kisses. It made John feel ten feet tall and made of molten gold. It made him feel loved. Even if Sherlock never said the words, John felt _adored_.

Even so, he often had just the shade of a doubt that Sherlock was still holding a little bit of himself back in their lovemaking. John _thought_ he made Sherlock as happy as Sherlock made him. He wanted to give that adored feeling back to Sherlock tenfold, thousandfold… _all_ the folds. He wanted his Sherlock without any vestige of caution, without any restraint. He wanted him to know nothing he might desire of John would break him, would break _them_.

Perhaps it was time, John thought as he dug his fingers possessively into the firm muscles of Sherlock's shoulders, to try a new experiment.

"I mean it, you know," he muttered against the corner of Sherlock's jaw. "I want you to wear the costume."

"I'm already wearing the costume."

John pulled back far enough to give Sherlock a _look_.

"Oh." Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "I see. You mean…?"

"It would be a shame to let it go to waste."

"You want me to have sex with you."

John drew Sherlock's hips toward his own, pressing himself against Sherlock's thigh. "That's news to you?"

"As a _vampire_."

"Yes. God, yes," John growled. He tipped his face up for another kiss, but Sherlock was frowning over the top of his head with a distracted expression. "What's wrong?"

"No," Sherlock shook his head, gave an airy little wave of one hand. "It's fine."

John sighed and sank back onto his heels. "What is it?"

"I'm just reviewing the rules. For obvious reasons, I've retained minimal information on the topic. It wasn't necessary for the case."

"The rules."

"Of being a vampire. For example, how did I get in?"

"What?"

"Vampires have to be invited, don't they?"

"Let's just say I let you in."

"Knowing I'm a vampire."

John shrugged. "I think I mentioned _impossible to resist_."

Sherlock frowned down at John's attire. "And do vampires feed on elves? Is the blood compatible?"

Scowling, John drew away. "As I've told you, at least _four times_ now, I am not an _elf._ I'm Robin Hood. This is a _Robin Hood_ costume."

"Ah. I see." Sherlock's forehead crinkled thoughtfully. "Shouldn't you be wearing tights?"

John sighed. "Not Errol Flynn. Russell Crowe."

"Who?"

"No, I should _not_ be wearing tights."

"I _will_ need to consider different strategies for your predation in that case." Sherlock frowned, chewing his lower lip thoughtfully as he began glancing around the landing and up the stairs, sharp eyes assessing all the dark and shadowed spaces. "If I'm facing a man easily capable of shooting a wooden stake through my heart from a distance."

"Sherlock, love," John pinched the bridge of his nose between two fingers. "You're overthinking it. And I'm not going to _be_ an el—I'm not going to be _Robin Hood_. I'm going to be me."

"Oh." Sherlock nodded a little too quickly, the way he did when he was feeling a bit out of his depth. "But…I just thought I should take into consideration all the relevant—"

" _Sherlock._ " John made sure he recaptured Sherlock's focus both with his firm tone and with the squeeze of his hand around Sherlock's bicep. "It's actually fairly straightforward."

Sherlock's brow furrowed attentively. He nodded at John to proceed.

"It's like this." John dropped his voice. "It was a _good_ case. This has been the best damn Halloween I've ever had. I'm _worked up_. You look incredibly hot in that getup. And I want you—in the costume—to hunt, subdue, bite, and fuck me. And, Sherlock…" He ran his hand gently down Sherlock's arm, ending with a soft stroke of his thumb against the bare skin of Sherlock's wrist. "I want it _rough_. Are we clear?"

Sherlock stood silently, frozen and staring.

"Sherlock?" John licked his lips, feeling a glimmer of uncertainty at Sherlock's blank expression. "We don't _have_ to do this if—"

"I'm ready." Sherlock sucked in a sharp breath. "We can begin. Have we begun? I'm ready now."

John's delighted grin spread back into place. "Not much of a hunt if I'm just standing in front of you is it?"

Sherlock gave him a fierce glare. "Then _go away._ "

"Wear the teeth," John grinned over his shoulder as he jogged up the stairs, leaving Sherlock to lurk in the darkness below. Now that was a little more like it. At least Sherlock was a bit _irritable_ now—a properly annoyed vampire. John licked his lips in anticipation. As amazing a lover as Sherlock was, _angry Sherlock_ was, well…breathtaking.

This was going to be _good_.

He left the lights in the flat off—more atmospheric—and shed the most obviously Sherwood-themed elements of his own costume as he focused on getting himself into character. He tossed leather bracers, wide belt, and his sueded brown vest onto the sofa as he scanned the room. Tugged open on the laces at the v-neck of his tunic, letting the shirt fall open, temptingly he hoped. Now…he rubbed his hands together…he mustn't make it _too_ easy for his pursuer, but if he did want to be properly stalked he should probably at least make himself scarce long enough for Sherlock to get into a tenable stalking position. He made his way down the hallway and busied himself in the loo and then in their bedroom for several minutes, tugging off his boots, setting out lubricant and hand towels within easy reach on the beside table.

He stilled when he caught the sound of the brief, soft scrape of wood against wood. Kitchen? Chair? Something on the table? His heart started to beat a little faster.

He could still hear the night's strong winds whining through the streets. The light from the waxing moon was filtered through scudding clouds, making the shadows seem like they were moving. It _was_ a bit eerie, wasn't it? _Dangerous_ , even. Who knew what might lie waiting in the dark? As a solider he knew how to hold his own in a fight, but sometimes even _he_ could be overpowered. And as a soldier he also knew how to give a command, but he knew how to take one, too. Especially if the command was issued in a deep, rolling purr of a voice.

Barefoot, skin tingling, John crept out into the hallway, head cocked and mouth open, listening intently.

"Is someone there?" he called out, trying to sound a bit trepidatious instead of just rather gleefully horny. He padded silently toward the sitting room, eyes wide in the dim blue light.

There was a soft _pop_ directly in front of him, and a cloud of grey erupted in his face.

John's startled inhale sucked enough of the smoke into his lungs to double him over, coughing. "The _fuck_?" he choked out as the column of smoke was swept aside—mostly—by a swoop of red and black satin.

Sherlock stepped grandly in front of John. He flung his arms wide, wall-to-wall in the hallway, spreading his cape like the wings of a giant bat. He lifted his chin and stared down his nose with dramatically widened eyes. Opened his mouth to reveal his white plastic fangs. And _hissed_.

John clapped a hand over his mouth, muffling the sound as a final cough turned into a bark of laughter.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed.

_Oh god_ , John thought, as his eyes began to tear, _don't laugh._

Sherlock dropped his arms and pulled out his plastic teeth, scrutinising John closely. "John, I am very much hoping that flushed expression indicates arousal."

Still with his hand over his mouth, John nodded, managing a small sound of encouragement.

"Good." Sherlock nodded, re-inserted and adjusted his plastic teeth, and resumed his grand vampire stance. "Becausthe I am going to _sthuck_ you," he announced in a bold, resonant tone, then frowned, startled, down at his own mouth as if betrayed by the unexpected sounds it had just made.

John erupted into helpless giggles.

Sherlock stared at him, looking utterly scandalised. "What?" His cheeks darkened noticeably. "Sschut up!"

John curled in on himself, laughing so hard he had to lean against the wall to maintain his balance.

"Oh, for _god'th_ …" Sherlock pulled the teeth out and flung them on the floor, snarling. They bounced away with an unimpressive little _tick tick tick_ as he shoved his way past John, stalking furiously toward the bedroom.

"S-ss-sorry, I'm sorry," John stammered, trying to grab at Sherlock's cape. The effect of the apology was spoilt by an undignified burble of laughter at the end. "Wait!"

The bedroom door slammed shut.

John gulped in a breath of air, wiped his eyes and followed Sherlock, who was stood in the centre of the bedroom, jerking angrily at the ties of his cape.

"I assume we're finished here," he snapped, turning his back on John as he slung the cape from his shoulders and onto the floor.

"I'm sorry! It's just…it was…Sherlock, really, I'm _sorry_."

"So you keep saying," Sherlock clipped out, flinging himself onto the edge of the bed. He yanked off one black boot and threw it across the room. "This was _your_ idea."

"I know," John said as he knelt in front of Sherlock, wrapping a hand around Sherlock's wrist as he went for his other boot. "Sherlock, stop."

"No. I am taking this _off_. As it is quite clearly, if you will recall my earlier assertion, _not sexy at all._ "

"Sherlock." John softened his voice. "Look, I'll do it. Let me do it." He reached down and slid Sherlock's other boot off his leg, giving his woolly-socked foot a reassuring squeeze. "See? I'm sorry. I'm sorry I laughed. It was…it was…"

"It was _not good._ "

"Well, no, it's just…" John bit down on his lip as another bubble of laughter threatened. He slid his hands over the tops of Sherlock's thighs, trying to make the motion soothing. The one component of Sherlock's own clothing his costume had incorporated were his black suit trousers, and the fabric felt sleek and familiar beneath John's palms. "You were, um, adorable."

"Oh, how _wonderful._ "

"Yes. Wonderful. You _are_ wonderful. _And_ adorable." John crawled a little closer to Sherlock, snugging himself in between his long legs. He tugged the front of Sherlock's shirt free from his trousers and rubbed his nose along the strip of bare skin he'd exposed. He felt Sherlock's abdominal muscles tense beneath his touch.

" _Adorable_ was not one of the stated parameters," Sherlock scowled. "This was a _ridiculous_ idea. It didn't _work_."

"I _thought_ you'd like it." John glanced up as he unfastened Sherlock's trousers.

"I've clearly disa—" Sherlock's teeth snapped closed with a sharp _click_. " _This_ wasn't your desired scenario."

John unzipped Sherlock's flies and nuzzled at the elastic waistband of his black cotton pants. "The desired scenario was having sex, and _that_ is still going to happen."

Sherlock gave him an incredulous look. "Oh, you think so?"

"You're angry with me," John said.

"Good deduction," Sherlock smirked out a mocking impersonation of John.

John looked down, licked his lips. "Well, your cock isn't."

Sherlock frowned down at his erection and made a sharp, dismissive motion with one hand. "That isn't fair. It's _always_ on your side."

"Then I guess you're outvoted," John said with a serene smile. "Because _this_ is what we _do_ after a case in which you have been brilliant."

Sherlock sniffed. "I'm always brilliant," he muttered at last, letting John pull his shirt off over his head. "Why are you _smiling_?"

"Because I'm happy. Because I love you and you make me happy." He raked his fingers through the tangle of Sherlock's hair. "Kiss me."

Sherlock looked pointedly away toward the far corner of the room, his expression sullen. "No."

"Fine. Then get on the bed."

"I'm already on the bed," Sherlock said peevishly.

John knelt again and hooked his fingers under the waistbands of Sherlock's trousers and pants as he nodded toward the pillows at the head of the bed. "All the way."

Sherlock scrunched his face into a resistant pout, but nevertheless pushed himself backward with his arms, lifting his hips out of his trousers. John pulled trousers, pants, and socks the rest of the way off as Sherlock, now gloriously naked, scooted the rest of the way back to lean against the headboard.

Feeling quite pleased with the results of his efforts thus far, John climbed onto the bed, straddling Sherlock's outstretched legs. Sherlock folded his arms across his chest and glared at John belligerently.

"Sherlock, you laughed at _me_ when I pretended to pull you at that bar."

"Of course I did. Your technique was rubbish."

" _My_ technique?" John pressed his palms against Sherlock's hips, rubbing his thumbs in teasing circles just to either side of the warm weight of Sherlock's erection. "Sherlock, what was the _smoke_ about?"

Sherlock frowned. "Vampires appear in a cloud of smoke."

"No," John giggled, shaking his head. "No, they don't."

"Don't they?"

"They really don't." John moved back on the bed, running his fingertips down the crease between Sherlock's clenched thighs. "Open up, love."

Sherlock glowered down his nose at John, lower lip jutting impressively. "What for?"

John slid his hand up, a long stroke up the shaft of Sherlock's cock, ending with a squeeze at the head. He dropped his voice. "Because I'm going to make it _all_ up to you."

Sherlock regarded him coolly for several long moments, then sighed and flung one arm over his face. His thighs parted to John's questing fingers. "If you must," he conceded with a dramatic sigh.

Humming his approval, John leaned over and took Sherlock in his mouth.

 

+++

 

Sherlock was gone from the flat the following morning by the time John awoke. He'd left no note, which was hardly atypical behaviour, but John suspected that despite the rather impressive orgasm John had coaxed out of him last night, Sherlock might still be feeling just a bit embarrassed over the failed vampire experiment.

John did feel quite guilty for laughing. And for not feeling guiltier about it than he did. Raging egomaniac that Sherlock was, there were still some areas where he was less than sure of himself. John was quite happy to give Sherlock all manner of grief in any situation where his pride was in danger of running wild, but he would never wish to actually wound him. Knowledge of someone else's vulnerabilities—especially someone like Sherlock who would have the world believe he had none—was a powerful thing, to be wielded with caution.

He let Sherlock alone, wherever he was, to get on with his day's experiments (or just his general avoidance of John, if that was the case) since he had some errands of his own to catch up on. He didn't text until late afternoon, after Greg Lestrade rang and John accepted his invitation out for a pint, when he was actually starting to be just a bit concerned at the lack of contact.
    
    
    Where are you? Everything OK?
    
    Fine. Busy. -SH

John lifted an eyebrow. All right, then. Terse, but that was also hardly atypical. He let Sherlock know about his plans with Greg, but received no further communication. John let it go, but let his back brain start working on ways he might soothe any still-ruffled feathers when he did see Sherlock again. After all, if there was anything he was good at—apart from being an excellent doctor, competent soldier, and talented blogger, of course, he thought as he adjusted the collar of his plaid button-up under a warm navy jumper—it was managing Sherlock Holmes.

They met at Greg's local and sequestered themselves in a quiet booth near the back of the pub to exchange their Halloween stories. John told Greg about the evening's case—what he'd decided to call the Case of the IV League for his blog—and made him cry with laughter over his description of how dashing vampire Sherlock had found himself engaged in battle with a surprisingly athletic Little Bo Peep at the fancy dress party. An extremely undignified wrestling match over her blood phial-filled shepherd's crook had ensued that Sherlock had only managed to win by virtue of the felonious Ms Peep's lace petticoat getting tangled in the ribs of a decorative skeleton. Greg in turn had John chuckling over his tales of some of the more unfortunate party-goers who had spent the night in the Met's lock-up, and then in tears of his own with his impression of Mycroft eating his first toffee apple.

"Why on earth did Mycroft _have_ a toffee apple?" John snickered.

"Oh, I brought one home. That is, I brought one round to his. In the spirit, you know." He grinned wickedly. "'Cause Mycroft Holmes and food on a stick…how could that be a bad thing?"

Mellowed by both beer and company, John was feeling pleasantly warm and more than a little blurry around the edges by the time he and Greg called it a night. He pulled out his phone and tried texting Sherlock once more before they left their seats, but again received no reply. _Sulky sod_ , he thought cheerfully enough, stuffing the phone into his jacket pocket. But as he and Greg pushed their way through to the exit, a prickle of unease chilled the back of his neck. He put a hand on Greg's arm, stopping in the centre of the now-busy pub floor to look around over both shoulders for…something.

"All right?" Greg asked, frowning as he tracked John's scan of the room.

There was nothing. Other pub-goers, going about their business, laughing and chatting in an entirely un-menacing fashion. John shook his head. Alcohol-induced imagination. "Yeah. Sorry. Just—nothing, I guess."

"Halloween ghosts follow you out?" Greg grinned, widening his eyes.

"Must've done," John grinned back, shrugging. He waved Greg farewell as they exited to the street, headed in opposite directions. "Take care, mate."

The first night of November was making itself known with an icy sting in the air, oddly still in comparison with the almost playful bluster last night's windy, cloud-scudded All Hallows' Eve had offered. Even the normally boisterous neighbourhood around Greg's local seemed subdued under the oppressive chill. Although the street was still crowded, the conversations were huddled and quiet, the laughter between companions kept private and muffled.

John had about a quarter mile to walk to his intended tube station, and as he rounded the corner onto a more commercial street the social sounds and smells and light faded away completely. Shop fronts for jewellers, designer furnishings, boutique fashion, were locked down for the evening, although John could still see pale, faceless mannequins staring sightlessly through glass display windows. On the opposite pavement one other fellow pedestrian, chin tucked into bright red muffler and hands stuffed into grey parka pockets, was making his way at a fair clip in the direction John had come from.

He had worn no scarf of his own, but John assumed a similar tuck of chin and hands into the warm pockets of his brown wax jacket and a similar pace toward the lamp at the far end of the lonely street. It was so quiet he could hear the faint squeak from the left heel of his wearing brogues as he walked, and the whisper of the fabric of his clothes seemed to echo off the faces of the long line of low-slung, grey-paned brick buildings. Cold as it was, he almost wished for a brisk wind to rise just to stir some sound.

He was halfway down the street when a second set of footsteps joined him on the pavement.

John glanced back over his shoulder.

A tall figure, male, slim, was silhouetted against the gold and lavender lights just past the entrance of the busier street behind him, moving at an easy, unhurried pace.

John continued on, then frowned as his skin prickled another warning at him.

This time he stopped and turned to look. The figure behind him stopped, too. The prickle of awareness that had been teasing the back of his neck skittered down his spine, and for the first time in the cold night air, John shivered. At least forty yards away, the silhouetted figure stood in still silence. Watching. Even at this distance, he felt the man's focus. On him. The hair on his forearms stood on end.

He had no weapons at hand but his own body, but then…that was usually enough. He set his jaw and lifted his chin. If someone wanted a go at him, he was ready. Always.

The figure turned aside and stepped into a pool of shadow, vanishing.

John swallowed, waiting, watching closely for movement. When he saw nothing but darkness, heard nothing but the sound of his own controlled breathing, he forced himself to turn, to keep walking. He took a deep breath, blew it out again, and let the lingering haze of three pints and a whiskey relax the muscles he'd clenched a moment before. Maybe, as Greg had jokingly suggested, he really was just letting himself get spooked.

He had just stepped into the welcoming circle of light from the street lamp when he heard another sound behind him, and when he turned his heart almost leapt from his chest. The man was just behind him. John's hands curled into fists.

The man stepped forward into the light.

_Sherlock_.

John's exclamation of relief died in his throat.

Sherlock, but…not Sherlock. Even in the low, amber-tinted light, John could tell before he even blinked that something was _off_. He was deathly pale, for one. His eyes had gone completely colourless, moon-silver surrounded by a darker grey rings.

"Are you all right?" John blurted, one hand flying automatically toward the centre of Sherlock's chest. Was he ill? Injured? Not…not drugs. Please, no.

The unsettlingly altered Sherlock tilted his head curiously. His hair was dark, _darker_ , and wild. Even his eyelashes seemed thicker, blacker. He wore no coat, no scarf, just a simple black shirt, tails loose over a pair of faded jeans, clothing far too light for the weather. No wonder John hadn't recognised his silhouette.

"Ahh," he exhaled softly as his pale eyes lit with understanding, and as his mouth opened the light caught the sharp, glittering white tips of his long incisors.

John forgot how to breathe. "Oh my god," he whispered.

"I've startled you," rumbled a deep, strangely-accented voice that was also not Sherlock's own. Long, dark lashes swept down toward pale cheeks as Sherlock's gaze drifted from John's eyes to his mouth. One corner of Sherlock's lips curled up in a soft smile that might have been gentle were it not for the avaricious gleam in his eyes. "That was not my intention."

"Oh my god," John repeated stupidly.

"Not quite." Sherlock took another slow step toward John. The half smile lingered as he caught John's hand, which was still hovering in the air between them. His fingers were ice cold.

John's heart leapt back to life, beating like a the heart of a rabbit caught under the swooping shadow of a hawk as he stared open-mouthed at Sherlock.

The tips of Sherlock's fingers brushed over the pulse point on John's wrist and he smiled, another quick flash of sharpened tooth. "Relax," he murmured, amused. "I'm just returning your phone." He pressed a cool, plastic rectangle into John's palm.

"My phone…" John's free hand slid to his now-empty jacket pocket. His eyes never left Sherlock's. "You were at the pub."

Sherlock gave John a slow, sly blink. "I was thirsty."

_Oh my god._ John managed, barely, not to say it aloud this time. _Sherlock. You…perfect…brilliant…_

Sherlock spun his body smoothly into John's, pressing into John's chest as he raised both John's hand and his phone and pressed a button on the front. "This is you, is it not?"

John looked down as his contact information, back lit in soft blue-grey, winked into view on the mobile's view screen.

"That's…that's me."

"You should be more careful," Sherlock spoke the warning close to John's ear in a low voice that seemed to roll down his back like melting wax. "You're intoxicated."

"I…yes…a bit…"

Sherlock bent his head lower, and inhaled slowly, deeply. The barest hint of breath stirred the delicate hairs on John's neck as Sherlock whispered, barely audibly, against John's skin, " _Intoxicating_."

The tip of a cold thumb brushed along the ridge of John's jaw, and a hard shiver shook his entire body.

Sherlock stepped away from him abruptly, and John swayed forward, only catching himself from actually falling into him with a quick step. Sherlock observed his graceless stumble with a dispassionate expression.

He gave John the merest hint of a nod. "I wish you a safe journey home." Another slow blink, and a gleam reappeared in his eyes. "John Watson. 221B Baker Street."

He walked past John without another word, leaving him wide-eyed and speechless, and disappeared into the night.

Blinking after him, John realised his legs were trembling with…everything. Shock. Excitement. Elation. And, yes, even fear. _Oh god._ _Sherlock. You fucking_ wonder.

The game was _on._

 


	2. Chapter 2

John was on edge for the remainder of his walk to the tube station. As he merged back into more populated streets he found himself constantly checking over his shoulder for silver eyes, breaking stride for a closer look at dark hair or clothing, or really just doing double-takes at any even vaguely man-shaped pedestrian who entered his field of vision. On the platform, he started at the fingertip-light brush of a jacket sleeve against his own when someone passed a little too close. On the train, he whirled toward the sinister nudge of an accidental shoulder against his back. His palms stayed damp, his pulse elevated. Every time it was _not_ Sherlock beside him John felt a wave of disappointment, blew out the breath he'd been holding, and caught the next one just as quickly as another figure caught his eye. But he met no vampires on his journey.

By the time he reached Baker Street, John was clenching his jaw so hard in anticipation that his teeth were chattering, because _surely_ that hadn't been the end of it. His skin felt too tight. His eyes felt too wide from being _aware_ for so long.

Even so, John almost missed him.

He was close enough to read the brass-plated _221B_ when _something_ —he couldn't say what it was…a change in the light in his peripheral vision, perhaps, or a sigh of sound where there should be only silence—made him stop in his tracks on the pavement. He turned slowly, his eyes drawn to a soft-edged pool of darkness on the opposite side of the street. He couldn't make out any hint of Sherlock's potential presence, and so was immediately certain Sherlock was there.

Baker Street was quiet this late at night, under the sway of the same hush in the air John had felt earlier, but by no means deserted. A pair of young women, chatting between themselves, passed behind John on the pavement. Their voices faded as they moved away. As John stood immobile staring into the shadows, a red sports car glided past on the street. The headlamps sent their light reaching across the pavement, briefly illuminating a slim figure leaning against the wrought-iron rail. His pale hands were curled between the jutting, spiked finials and his long legs crossed at the ankles, his body stretched out in indolent display. His head was hung low, but there was no mistaking that his eyes were fixed on John. The car's lights slid away, returning the figure to its shadows.

John's heart thumped with excitement. As eager as he was to be back within touching distance of this fey and fanged Sherlock, he took a moment to calm his mind and body. Part of him wanted to simply give himself over to this private theatre Sherlock had created, to let this intimately familiar and beloved stranger-in-the-game take him apart; another part of him refused to surrender any control he did not have to in order to play the game. It had been _his_ game to begin with, after all. He sniffed, smirked, put his shoulders down, and crossed the street.

"You're following me," John called out as he stepped onto the opposite pavement. He walked toward the patch of shadow and stepped into it, but where he had just seen Sherlock seconds ago, there was nothing but the iron railing.

A sigh of breath at the back of his neck. "No."

Tendrils of electricity shivered down John's spine, but he forced himself to turn slowly. He made sure his voice portrayed nothing but confidence. He raised his eyebrows, challenging. Playing. "Then what are you doing here?"

Sherlock's long lashes drifted gently down as he lowered his gaze to John's throat and let it linger there. "Waiting."

"For me."

"Yes."

"What do you want?"

Sherlock raised a finger and traced the tip of one fingernail across the side of John's throat, lightly scraping the spot where his eyes had lingered moments before.

"You know what I want."

His accent remained strangely unidentifiable, like all the world's dialects had combined into one beautiful, perfect voice, delivered with the resonance of ages. Deep, open vowels and sensually savoured consonants, so unlike Sherlock's usual fireworks display of speech.

John did his best not to react visibly, trying to hang on to his bravado. "What makes you think I'm interested?" His eyes were quickly attuning to the shadows, and he could make out the slow, secretive smile that curved Sherlock's mouth at his question.

"John Watson." Sherlock took a quick, gliding step into John's space. His whispered voice was the sound of paws padding across the forest floor at midnight. "What makes you think it matters what _you_ want?"

This time John couldn't control the hiss of his indrawn breath. For a moment his body was torn between the urge to bolt back from the implied threat and the urge to fling himself into the promise in Sherlock's eyes.

Sherlock's answering smirk said that he had seen both impulses as clearly as he saw everything in John's face…and body. "But you _do_ want me." His voice turned soothing. Seductive. The fingers lingering at John's throat slid into the hair at the nape of his neck, but the thumb of his hand remained resting lightly against John's pulse point. "Your blood is purring for me. I can _hear_ it. I can _smell_ it."

John licked his lips. The theatre was getting easier and easier to give himself over to, at that. Hardly any surrender at all. _Cooperation_ , that's more what it was. He could cooperate. He was a cooperative sort of man. Sherlock's lips were parted, like he was breathing in John's scent, and John's gaze was caught by the white fang tips only barely revealed. "Yeah. I do. Want you," he confessed, as it wasn't really much of a confession anyway.

"I can _feel_ it," Sherlock's hand slid between John's thighs and up, palm pressed against his trousers. " _Purring_ ," he murmured triumphantly as he squeezed John's cock.

John pressed into Sherlock's hand with a grateful, needy groan. _Oh,_ that was good. He had been in such a _state_ since Sherlock stopped him in the street earlier that the touch flooded him with such a wave of relief his legs felt weak. It seemed like he had been waiting _all night_ for Sherlock's touch. He ground his hips forward. He wasn't sure he could _purr_ , but he managed an enthusiastic grunt.

Sherlock's breath of laughter against John's ear was cold. It puffed down inside the collar of his jacket and raised gooseflesh on his neck. He turned John away from him so he was facing the open pavement and then pulled him back against his chest and hips, holding him there with one arm wrapped around the front of his shoulders. His other hand slid back to the front of John's trousers. He tightened both arms, both hands and _squeezed_ , almost lifting John off his feet. "And everyone can _see_ it," he breathed into John's hair, now openly rubbing the length of John's erection, "how you want me."

John shut his eyes and groaned again at the pressure against his groin. He matched his own arms and hands to Sherlock's, both hugging himself further into Sherlock's embrace and trying to protect himself from open view. At the far end of Baker Street, a man was walking in their direction. A couple, man and woman, stood chatting diagonally across the street. Another man was walking away, talking on his mobile. Had the shadows changed at all? How much of their intimacy was still concealed in darkness? How starkly would Sherlock's big, pale hand stand out against the indigo denim at John's groin? John glanced once again at the man walking toward them.

"You don't want them to see," Sherlock whispered, his voice tinged with a sort of harsh amusement. His cool lips brushed the edge of John's ear, his tongue darted a quick taste of John's neck. "You don't want anyone to see what I do to you."

John squirmed against Sherlock's palm, urging for more friction as his hips pressed forward and then back against Sherlock's thighs, the beginnings of a thrusting rhythm. "Do _you_? Oh, god," he gasped as Sherlock deftly flicked open the button fastening of his trousers with two fingers and slid his hand inside, over the thin cotton of his pants.

"Yet you want more." Sherlock dragged a long, continuous open-mouthed kiss down the length of his exposed neck. The needle-sharp rasp of one fang against his skin froze John in the thrill of danger. The kiss ended with Sherlock's nose pressed inside John's jacket collar, where he hummed a satisfied little moan at John's helpless excitement.

"Yes," John gasped, arching his back against Sherlock's body as Sherlock's fingers slid and squeezed over the damp patch of fabric at the tip of his cock. The man at the end of the street was closer now. John could see the buttons on his overcoat. The laces on his brown shoes. "I do. But…"

The hand Sherlock held around John's chest moved to his throat, a caress, not a grip. The hand over John's pants moved faster, harder, jerking him in rough, short strokes inside the tight space of his trousers. "Not here?" Sherlock murmured. "You would feel safer inside? Your safe home? It's just steps away."

John gasped, nodding, because he was fairly certain what he _didn't_ want was to come in his trousers in the middle of Baker Street. And that was a rapidly approaching possibility.

A car turned onto the street. The yellow headlamp beams began to swing toward them.

John tensed. "Sherlock!"

Sherlock squeezed John's cock again, kissed his neck. "You wish to take me to your bed inside. Don't you? Don't you want me inside?"

The brown shoes _tap tap tapped_ closer. The yellow beam touched the end of the wrought iron railing.

"Yes, bed." John turned quickly toward Sherlock, tugging his jacket down over the gaping top of his trousers, wincing as he tried to zip his flies back up. "Yes, inside. Yes. I want that."

The car passed.

John took Sherlock's hand, warm now from contact with his body, and pulled him across the street toward the door to 221 with a furtive glance over his shoulder. The brown-buttoned, brown-shoed man glanced back at him, mildly curious, and then continued on. The chatting couple laughed together at a shared joke. The mobile-talker had disappeared around the corner at the far end of the street. John fumbled for his keys urgently and almost stumbled through the entryway in his eagerness. _Inside. Bed._

He turned once he had passed through the interior door, expecting Sherlock hard on his heels, but Sherlock was still on the front step. His arms were raised, braced against the outside of the door frame, tension evident in the line of his body. The tails of his black shirt were drawn up high enough, softly lit by the dim foyer light, to reveal the swell of his own erection inside his jeans. John's cock ached at the sight of him. _Gorgeous. God, what was he_ waiting _for?_

At John's puzzled expression, Sherlock widened his eyes in a look that John could only think of as _longing_. He opened his mouth in a silent plea and swayed in the frame of the doorway as though he were straining against the threshold, straining to be in John's arms.

John stared into the heat in those ice-coloured eyes, stared at the tips of bared fangs. _Vampire_. _Right._ He had almost forgotten.

"Come in," he invited, an smugly anticipatory grin spreading slowly across his face.

In an instant, Sherlock's expression switched from wide-eyed pleading to a cold, ravenous _intent_ that wiped the smirk off John's face. He was through the doorway faster than John expected, faster than John even thought he could move. The dark blur of his body hit John's, sending him sliding backward into the hard corner of the banister. A low snarl scratched at his skin, silver eyes and sharp teeth slashed across his field of vision as, off-guard and off-balance, he was spun and his back slammed against the wall. The impact knocked a breathy curse from him. His fingers splayed out against the textured furrows of the wallpaper fibres as though he might find a handhold there.

Sherlock stepped into him, one long leg between John's open thighs, his arms forming a cage around John's body. Leaned close and smiled. "John Watson." It was a dangerous smile. "You've made a mistake."

John trusted Sherlock implicitly, but his _body_ was responding to the threat in Sherlock's voice, to the power in his aggressive stance as surely as if he'd been cornered by a wild animal. He had never before felt so aware of the size difference between them. Sherlock was a much taller man. A much stronger man. He never used those qualities as an advantage over John…but the _vampire_ clearly wanted him to feel it. And John felt it. He felt pinned by the cold stare of a predator. _Mesmerising._

Sherlock pressed his teeth together and spoke through them, a low, terse command. "You will take down your trousers."

John hadn't expected this. Oh, once he had seen Sherlock's costume he had expected the game, but always with a sly wink between them—it _was_ a game. In bed, Sherlock might be demanding or manipulative, just as he was out of bed, but it was ultimately John who set the tone, who _managed_ things. Sherlock's dominant tone left no question as to who was managing this encounter, and John found himself speechless at the change. He'd been playing along, but this didn't feel like playing anymore. He should defend his role. He should push back, he should…

Wide eyed, he opened his trousers as instructed, pushed them and his pants down to his lower thighs. _Impossible to resist. Right._

It was an undignified position, almost shameful, bare-arsed and now half-hard cock hanging heavily between his legs in the chilly foyer. His eyes twitched toward the door to Mrs Hudson's flat.

Sherlock noted his concern with a smirk. "I advise you to keep quiet," he warned softly. He knelt in front of John and looked up, drawing back his upper lip to expose his fangs. His voice dropped even lower. "And _still_."

John clenched his thighs in his effort not to move as Sherlock's tongue slid under the head of his prick, guiding it into his mouth. His lips were soft around John, but John still felt the threat of _danger_ to his most sensitive skin. He pushed his head back against the wall, first barely allowing himself to breathe, and then breathing in great gasps as Sherlock's tongue circled him, licked a sloppy, greedy trail down his shaft. His hands hovered just above Sherlock's beguilingly soft curls, afraid to clutch and pull for fear of _sharp_. Sherlock was all warm lips and slippery tongue, tasting and lapping at him. Teasing him. It was wet and wonderful and _frustrating_ because John wanted his mouth around him _tighter_.

The needy groan that escaped him brought a breath of laughter against John's cock, which was now straining eagerly toward Sherlock's mouth for _more_ , fangs or no.

"I've just _begun_ to taste you, John Watson." Sherlock rose to his feet, looming over John and wrapping his fingers around John's slicked shaft as he did. As Sherlock's hand squeezed, John's eyes squeezed shut and he moaned. Sherlock's voice, lower and more ominous than the rumble of summer thunder, rolled over John. "But you must taste me, too, to complete our…transaction."

John opened his eyes just in time to see Sherlock, his gaze locked on John's face, press the tip of his tongue to the point of one incisor. A drop of blood welled up.

Sherlock licked into John's startled gasp, smearing the blood onto John's own tongue, then drew back and stared at John's mouth.

And this time it was Sherlock who shivered.

The coppery tang from the tiny droplet seemed to fill John's whole mouth. Sherlock's eyes were fierce and his grip on John's cock was almost angry, his fist pumping a fast, furious pulse, harder and harder. And all John could do—at _all_ of it—was throw his head back and stare at Sherlock, whose lower lip bore a bright smear of blood, in astonishment.

For the second time that night, John was about to come. John was _going_ to come, pants around his knees and blood in his mouth. He was _going_ —

"No."

Sherlock released him abruptly, and it was all John could do not to wail at the loss as Sherlock's hand moved away from his cock and slowly up his body, sliding over the rough cotton of his jacket, pressing him back into the wall. When the big hand closed around John's throat, John stilled, breathing hard.

"I _told_ you that you'd made a mistake." Sherlock _looked_ half-beast, half-wild, mouth open and red. " _Safe_ ," he sneered. "You're _mine_ now. You will never be _safe_ again."

Something was thundering inside his chest, inside his head. Something that wasn't fear, or arousal, although he was absolutely awash in those sensations. He clenched his teeth and pulled back his lips. It wasn't a smile. " _Good_."

Sherlock's fingers tightened for a split second on John's neck, and John held his gaze and raised his chin.

" _Clothes_ ," Sherlock grated out through bared teeth.

There was no more talking.

Sherlock opened his jeans and pulled out his hard, wet-tipped cock, stroking himself in long, tight pulls whilst John shed his jacket, shoes, trousers, his _everything_ as fast as he could, until he was completely naked in front of Sherlock. As soon as the last item of his clothing hit the floor, Sherlock spun him toward the stairs, forcing him down face-first against the wooden steps. John flung out an arm against a hard landing, shoved his other hand in front of his groin to protect himself.

Then Sherlock was on top of him and John felt a slick of cold— _slick, how? Fuck, he didn't care_ —against him and spread his legs. Sherlock pushed a finger inside him.

Sherlock— _his_ Sherlock—was almost heartbreakingly solicitous of John's comfort on the rare occasions they made love with Sherlock inside him. This Sherlock had no such compunctions. He prepared John quickly, with merciless efficiency, pushing his tolerance but never actually exceeding it. Sherlock knew John's limits _perfectly_. When he finally pressed into John, shirt silky against John's back, jeans rough against the backs of his thighs, it was in one long slide, tip to hips. The union tore a groaning chord from both their throats.

Sherlock set a brutal pace. John fisted his own cock, letting Sherlock's thrusts do all the work of providing friction. The stair treads were dirty, gritty with street debris, dusty, chalky under John's supporting arm, under his face. His knees slid in the dust and struck the risers over and over.

" _Never safe_." Sherlock drove into him again and again, panting and growling against the back of John's neck. "Mine now." His arms around John's body were so tight that he was practically lifting him off the stairs when he pulled back, slamming him down again as he pushed into him. Words were leaking out of him now. "My blood. In you." Sherlock moaned. His voice was ragged. His accent had slipped. "Always. Inside you." He clutched at John like he would tear him apart. "Now for _eternity_ ," he whispered against the sweat-warm skin of John's neck. " _Say it_."

Sherlock was holding nothing back, and John was on his way to a mind-altering, possibly atom-rearranging orgasm.

Holding nothing back.

Through the red haze of his arousal, through the teeth-jarring snaps of Sherlock's hips, the thing hammering inside John's head shattered.

_Sherlock was holding nothing back._

"Stop!"

Sherlock froze.

John pulled up one leg for leverage and pitched both of them to one side. Sherlock rolled off him, leaving him horribly empty. His cheeks were flushed pink, his pale eyes fever-bright and dazed. Two very clear emotions passed over Sherlock's face in rapid succession: _Are you all right? Have I done something wrong?_ Tendrils of damp hair were clinging to his temples.His lower lip was bleeding where he had apparently caught it on one of his teeth. John reached out, wonderingly, and touched one crushed curl.

"John?"

"Sherlock," John breathed, turning awkwardly onto his back. He found a spot where the edge of the step wasn't pressing into his spine and grabbed two handfuls of Sherlock's soft black shirt, pulling him in close between his open legs.

Sherlock _never_ held anything back. Sherlock gave him everything: his adoration, his lust, his insecurity, his playfulness, his possessiveness, his fear. He gave John _everything_.

"God," John groaned, moving his hands to Sherlock's hips, hooking his fingers into the denim belt loops to urge him closer. He didn't know what to do with this…revelation right now. Or the shock of guilt that chased it. How could John ever have been such an idiot as to think _Sherlock_ was the one holding back? Sherlock had flung himself into the cataract without hesitation, without a safety line. It was John. It had always been _John_ holding back, protecting himself behind humour, hiding behind pride. John who didn't want to relinquish control in this area of their relationship he felt was _his ground_. John who didn't want to reveal too much. "Sorry," he whispered.

Sherlock just stared at him, eyes wide and confused.

"Sorry…I wanted to see you. _You_ , Sherlock. Be _my Sherlock_ again now. Don't stop. Just…god…hurry. I want you. I want _you._ " He wriggled until he felt the tip of Sherlock's cock against him again, reached up and grabbed two tight handfuls of hair. "Sherlock, _please_."

It took Sherlock three sharp breaths to move again, and when he did he plunged into John with a snarl. The snap of his hips was ferocious. John wrapped his legs around him, wrapped his arms around him, chanting his name, feeling the trapped friction of his own cock between their moving bodies.

"I will _never_ let you go," Sherlock growled.

"Eternity. I heard you," John panted. "I heard you."

Sherlock's eyes darkened. His nostrils flared. He flung his head forward, sank his teeth into John's neck, and came.

Somewhere in the back of John's mind, with Sherlock sucking his neck as he ground out his orgasm, the doctor observed that the wounds he made must be minor, barely more than pinpricks. Wondered what the teeth were _made_ of to make such shallow, precise marks. Farther back in John's mind, the man who was being _devoured_ told the doctor to shut the _fuck_ up and groaned, loud and ecstatic. Caught between teeth and Sherlock's pulsing thrusts, John shoved his hand in between their bodies, around his own cock, and he was coming, too. He squeezed his eyes shut until he saw red, felt the red inside his heart and his veins and inside Sherlock's mouth.

When the haze cleared, John murmured the only thought he could form. " _Wow_."

 

+++

 

They lay intertwined, admiring one another with hands and lips, for a long time before John began to remember that stairs were uncomfortable, his knees hurt, his elbows were dusty, and he—being the only one currently naked and with semen cooling in his arse crack—was growing both sticky and cold.

Flooring and clothing and skin were cleaned and patched up as needed, and eventually John emerged from the shower and wrapped himself self-indulgently in Sherlock's burgundy silk dressing gown. On the sink-top he found Sherlock had left a pair of ice-white contact lenses and a pair of tiny, still-gleaming vampire fang tips in two small glass-lidded cases. John ran a fond finger over the case holding the fangs and, curious, picked it up to examine it. On the back was a printed label with the name of a London-based makeup designer. John snorted. Of course Sherlock had enlisted a professional.

Sherlock was burrowed under the duvet, looking pink-cheeked and young with his costume stripped away and humanity restored. He held the covers up for John. "Hurry up! I'm cold!"

"You could have worn a coat earlier, you know."

"Vampires are meant to be cold. I am no longer a vampire. Warm me."

John climbed into bed and snuggled in beside him, fitting himself under Sherlock's arm and along the side of his body. Sore and smug and sated, he smiled to himself, tentatively fingering the twin wounds at the side of his neck.

Sherlock noted the movement. "You probably won't have a scar," he said. He sounded just a bit embarrassed that he had actually bitten John, and just a bit glum not to be leaving a permanent mark.

"I'm going to make sure I do," John said quietly.

Sherlock's head swivelled toward him.

"Sherlock," John licked his lips carefully, tongue grazing the already-healing cut his own lip had acquired at some point, a twin to Sherlock's. "Those things you said…"

Sherlock looked away, drew one hand out from under the duvet and ran his fingers along the crease at the edge of the top sheet. "Vampire," he said and shrugged. "I was still playing the part."

"No. You weren't."

"John."

"You meant everything you said."

Watching the steady motion of his hand as it moved across the sheet, smoothing away lines that were not there, Sherlock lifted his eyebrows and asked quietly, "Too much?"

John's belly shook with unexpected nerves. Anything he said now didn't have the excuse of the mindless heat of passion. This was a quiet moment, a moment of vulnerability, when it would be so easy for John to resume his most cherished role: Protector of Sherlock's Heart. And in doing so, continue protecting his own. Sherlock's past experiences having never included an essentially equal, loving relationship, he had judged John the resident expert in terms of _practical_ experience, and they had behaved accordingly. But in this concept of surrender, John was the novice. It had taken a vampire to draw it out of him. He snorted a soft laugh and turned to face Sherlock. "Do you know why, Sherlock? Why it had to be _you_ at the end?"

Sherlock glanced at him, the corners of his mouth twitching down. He shook his head. "Why?"

John took a deep breath. "Because it always has to be you." He held Sherlock's eyes intently, willing him to understand that even though the only words he could find may be mild, his heart was not. His voice was tight now. Love was easy. Tenderness, sex, teasing, protecting…those things were easy for him. What was hard, what was truly _frightening_ , was _need._ And, oh, how he needed this man. "Because I meant it, too. For me, always you. _Always_ , _only_ you."

Sherlock stared at him, then reached forward suddenly and grasped John's hand in his own, squeezing his fingers together until they were white. "John, I…I…" His eyes were wide and earnest, leaving John without any doubt of the words he was struggling over. "Your fantasies are not entirely ludicrous," he blurted at last.

John smiled and kissed him. Not for just one night of passion, but for morning tea and cases and boredom and fights and eventual old age and death and every raw, vulnerable, absurd, awe-inspiring moment in between. _I love you, too. I'm going to love you for the rest of my life. If there is such a thing as eternity, I am going to love you through all of it._ John felt joyous. He felt free. He felt terrified. "I'm glad you've taken the teeth out," he murmured against Sherlock's mouth.

Sherlock grunted his agreement, tonguing at the puncture wound on his own lip.

"Although…maybe you might have another go with them," John suggested, pursing his lips innocently. "Sometime."

Sherlock gave him a sceptical look and a noncommittal hum.

"What? No?"

"Whilst your fantasy may _not_ have been entirely ludicrous, _vampires_ are still ludicrous creatures."

"Oh." John couldn't help feeling disappointed and a bit confused, especially after the unmistakable enthusiasm of Sherlock's participation in said fantasy. "Well, I'll certainly never think so again," he added gamely.

"Unlike werewolves."

"Right. Wait, what?"

Sherlock scooted down a little further under the covers and gave John a worried frown. "There have _been_ sightings, John."

"Of _werewolves_."

"Yes. Recent sightings in London."

"Of werewolves. Which are _not_ ludicrous."

" _John_ ," Sherlock said sternly, "werewolves are dangerous, savage creatures. You should be _careful_."

"Should I? All right." John shook his head, puzzled. "I'll be...very careful."

"Good." Sherlock nodded and leaned over to press a sweet, serious kiss to the little cut at the corner of John's lip. "I hate to think what might happen if you were attacked. And came home…wild."

"Oh." John blinked as he finally realised what Sherlock was saying: _My turn, me next!_ He swallowed down an incipient giggle and nodded back, equally serious. "I see. Yes, you're right. That does sound…horrible."

"Mmhmm." Sherlock gave a contented, almost dreamy sigh as he lay back against his pillow and closed his eyes, wriggling to mould his long frame against John's side, draping a possessive hand over John's thigh. "Horrible."

John switched off the bedside lamp, but lay awake for a long time with a little smile playing on his lips until Sherlock's breathing slowed and steadied. Careful not to wake him, John reached over to the bedside table to retrieve his phone. He called up a weather site and grinned. Five nights.

He had five nights until the next full moon. He had the business card of a gifted make-up artist. And he had a newfound resolve: he would not hold anything back. He would show Sherlock that _his_ love, too, had _teeth._

Or, he thought, scratching his chin...far more likely, he would make an idiotic, utter, irrecoverable arse of himself. He would make himself completely ridiculous in front of the man he loved.

And that was fine. John smiled. For love. In love. He would make himself completely ridiculous. After all, it _was_ his turn.

 

**Author's Note:**

> [Beautiful art!](http://camillekaze.tumblr.com/post/106874897563/lets-say-i-let-you-in-ahem-this-was-just) by CamilleKaze

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover Art for 'Let's Say I Let You In '](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3895747) by [Carolock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carolock/pseuds/Carolock)
  * [[Podfic] Let's Say I Let You In](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8418748) by [Lockedinjohnlock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lockedinjohnlock/pseuds/Lockedinjohnlock)




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